


Fairy Tales

by theghostsofeurope (baronvonehren)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-09-29
Updated: 2011-10-14
Packaged: 2017-10-24 03:55:28
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,432
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/258704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baronvonehren/pseuds/theghostsofeurope
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has trouble sleeping and comes to John for help. John isn't sure if he should be nervous or not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Night-time Disturbances

“ _John_.”

The voice was soft, nearly small in the dark. John Watson fought back a groan and laid perfectly still, willing his chest to rise and fall in a slow fashion—mocking sleep.

“ _John_.” Sherlock whispered again, not moving from his place just beyond the threshold. Something in John’s sleepy mind gave him the thought of vampires and his eyes flickered open.

“Sherlock?” His mouth was dry, his tongue flicking out over chafed lips.

“ _I can’t sleep_.” His voice was still nearly inaudible, as if afraid of waking someone else. He leaned against the door frame, his shoulders bowed and shirt hanging from him.

John Watson realized what he wanted and felt a coiling in his stomach of indecision.

This had happened before, nearly a month prior. Sherlock had come to his room with the same sort of softness, hovering at the threshold and watching him ‘sleep’, and then leaving when John refused to respond.

The next morning John had felt incredibly guilty and asked Sherlock about his sleeping habits. ‘I’ve tried everything,’ the consulting detective responded with exasperation, ‘tea, mindless television, reading, and even that silly game of counting sheep.’ He told John that he once counted exactly  _six-hundred-forty-eight-thousand_ sheep in one night.

“All right then,” John hesitated, “come on.”

Sherlock padded over the floor and circled the bed, climbing in on the other side, the mattress dipping a bit. He slid into the sheets, gently, as if trying not to disturb John.

John awoke later that night sweating and panicked at first—startled from a dream and the feeling of intense heat, he felt as if he were suddenly thrust back into Afghanistan, wracked by fevers in an infirmary somewhere.

His breathing slowed and he became aware that Sherlock was pressing into him. If he hadn’t had remembered letting him into the bed, John would have thought he was nothing more than a lump of blankets.

Sherlock, despite his size, was the equivalent of a small furnace.  _No wonder he never wears gloves_.

At first, John resolved the issue by poking out a few toes from under the blankets. Then a leg. Then a leg and and arm.  _Won’t be able to sleep at this rate_ , his eyes flickered to the digital clock,  _4:00 AM_. One of the peculiar things was, no matter how hot John felt, he had to be covered with  _something_  as he slept, it was the weight, he supposed.

Sherlock hadn’t moved. The muscles in John’s neck went taut as he thought of a plan. He slowly sat up, glancing over at the bundle of blankets that pressed so close to him it was nearly touching. He gingerly removed his shirt, avoiding moving his shoulder, and slid back under the blankets, dropping the shirt to the floor slowly, as if the smallest sound could wake Sherlock.

John felt immediately cooler and began to drift off again until a small, deep voice came from the bundle. “John Watson you have scars like fairy tales.”

Nervous, he laid in silence. A man that most people fancied homosexual was laying in his bed, against his back, and commenting on his scars. He wasn’t sure if any of that made him nervous at all, and that’s what made him nervous.

“A fairy tale?” he whispered back, questioningly, wanting to roll over and look him in the face.

“Mm,” Sherlock responded, a sleepy rumble, and his face went slack. With every breath his ribcage expanded and pushed the blankets into John’s back.


	2. Dreams, Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock’s wrong, John thought, chuckling to himself and turning off the spray, more of a contradiction than a fairy tale.

It was 8:27 AM when John awoke. He slipped from the bed without Sherlock stirring and considered it a small triumph. The hot tap soothed his aching shoulder as he stood beneath the shower head; cars and voices from the streets below were beginning to pick up, audible through the loose glass of the small window.

As he passed a soaped hand over himself, softly, he wondered what part of his scars, exactly, were like a fairy tales. He closed his eyes.  _Should I ask him?_  His jaw twitched and he pushed it from his mind, resolving not to say anything, not to even mention the night before. The idea of Sherlock in his bed—hair mussed, voice thick from sleep—made him a bit anxious, really. Anxious, in that the thing, in and of itself, the action of being lovely and mussed and thick wasn’t producing anxiety, but the lack of anxiety was producing anxiety.

 _Sherlock’s wrong_ , John thought, chuckling to himself and turning off the spray,  _more of a contradiction than a fairy tale._

When he emerged from the shower, Sherlock was no longer in his room. The bed was unmade, the bundle of blankets smashed flat from, what he supposed, was Sherlock rolling out of bed. He closed the door, dressed, and began to make the bed.

The sheets smelled of him; everything smelt of Sherlock and it wasn’t even his room. It wasn’t a foul odour—Sherlock had impeccable personal hygiene—but it was thick, strange to him. He hadn’t really noticed it before, probably because he never made it a habit to sit on the couch or in Sherlock’s regular seat. And when he did, he never simply  _buried his nose in it_. That would be a bit weird, wouldn’t it? It had never occurred to him to do so, and he never was curious about it honestly.

He considered stripping the bed but instead made it up, straight and neat—squaring the corners just so; old habits do die hard.

The day progressed mundanely. Sherlock had turned the kitchen into a laboratory and played amateur phlebotomist for several long hours. Diligently, John kept a close eye on him, looking up from his chicken-pecking every few minutes to make sure Sherlock has not bled out all over the kitchen floor. For Sherlock, it is a very productive, if not dull, day. John couldn’t say likewise, however he’s glad that Sherlock has made headway and not somehow killed himself.

He turned in for bed relatively late, trying to finish up his latest blog post (he struggles to name it and ends up deleting it totally, simply because it’s not quite as fantastic as the rest). Sherlock laid on the couch, toes wriggling and his fingers steepled beneath his chin as though he was praying to the God of Please-End-My-Boredom.

John closed his door and undressed efficiently. He stared into the mirror, lips forming the words “fairy tales?” for a moment until he shook his head and pulled on his pajamas. When he turned off the light and slid between the sheets he felt  _smothered in Sherlock_. It shouldn’t have made him nervous, it didn’t, but not being nervous makes him nervous. He panicked a bit.

He closed his eyes and for a brief, frightening second, he wished he were back in Afghanistan. There was never any doubt or indecision there—it was all manic. Do this, do that, make sure this happens. There was a set of procedures he could follow and if he did it well and did it right, everything would be all right. Everything was cut and dry, very textbook really.

This wasn’t. Sherlock wasn’t something he could look up in a textbook. He lingered like an incurable affliction, in a way;  _god don’t say that_ , John thought guiltily,  _more like a woman’s fragrance after a party_. He wouldn’t admit to himself that you can wash a fragrance out of a jacket but you can’t wash out a disease.

 _If Sherlock is a disease, he was a fairly nice one_ , he settled on. Y _es, like being bit by a radioactive spider_. His breathing slowed and he rolled over,  _or catching vampirism or something_. 

That night, John dreamt that Sherlock was slowly choking him to death, his bare hands around his throat and straddling his chest. He was naked, Sherlock and himself. It had ended with Sherlock leaning in close, his breath hot on his nose and brow, his eyes dilated to twice their size and his lips peeled back to bare his teeth like a dog.

John awoke aroused, confused, and at 3:27 AM to the sound of Sherlock’s wayward violin.


	3. Escalation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fairy tales. That had started all of this, John thought idly, already starting to dread returning to the flat. Returning to Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise the next chapter is going to be a lot...stronger than this one.

John was relieved in his preoccupation at the clinic, despite the mounting tension of his relationship with Sarah—which had taken a whole new turn, not that she knew that. John couldn’t meet her eye when they passed in the corridor and his limp had returned.

The rain drizzled down outside, painfully boring, and John Watson—former Army Doctor—treated runny noses instead of bullet wounds and blown off limbs. He didn’t like when it rained like this, just drizzles and no torrents; it was cold, and well, wet, and it made his joints hurt in the way one would imagine the elderly would feel. He hated it because it reminded him that he was getting no younger and what was he doing? Wasting away in a London flat with a psychopath (high-functioning sociopath) and questioning his own sanity.

Sherlock was driving him insane. Among other things.

It was crazy. Just a few weeks ago he wouldn’t have felt like this at all. He leaned heavily on his palm, staring out of the window in his office. John’s mouth twitched as he thought of the first crime scene, giggling like a couple of idiots.

 _Fairy tales. That had started all of this_ , John thought idly, already starting to dread returning to the flat. Returning to Sherlock.

That morning, just before work, he had stripped the bed to rid himself of Sherlock’s smell. When he entered the kitchen, he found it impossible. It was as though the entire flat mocked him: he could smell his colleague everywhere in variations. He was the shampoo in the shower, the cream and sugar in his tea, the formaldehyde stain on the couch, and the resin from his strings wiped on the armchair.

John felt smothered; it was as if Sherlock was sitting on his chest, his fingers wrapped around his throat, eyes gleaming— _no, no that’s quite enough_. John’s neck bobbed nervously and he left the clinic.

Sherlock seemed to know something but didn’t speak and his eyes were hidden by his curls; they were matted down to his forehead by the rain and his coat hung from the back of the armchair, John’s armchair, dripping all over the floor. _He’s avoiding me_ , John thought in a panic, going straight to the kitchen to make tea because that was clearly the solution to all of his problems.

“John,” Sherlock rumbled, finally, his hair was already starting to dry. John idly wondered where he had gotten to. “Is something wrong?”

John would have frozen in place but he instead kept stirring his tea. Sherlock’s eyes pierced into his back. “What makes you think something’s wrong?”

The buttons of Sherlock’s shirt strained at the movement of sitting up. He steepled his fingers and continued to stare at him. Normally, John didn’t think it would bother him but now it set his skin alight. “You haven’t offered to make me tea.”

John laughed, unable to keep some of the nervousness out, “maybe I’ve learned that you’ll just turn me down.” For some reason the words seemed to hang a bit heavy in the air. Maybe it was his imagination.

 _Tack, tack tack tack._  Sherlock was texting someone and John didn’t bother to turn around or ask. “Yes, but you always offer me tea even if I refuse—you’re very caught up in pleasantries, John. It’s in your character.” John felt his face heat up. “Besides, your cheek twitches when you’re under stress; you grind your teeth. All of that and for some reason you won’t look me in the eye, yes, it’s all very,” he paused pressing send, “suspicious.”

John forced himself to look Sherlock in the eye, “you deduce that, did you?”

Sherlock’s face was impassive and suddenly it seemed like John no longer knew how to read that secret body language. He was pinned to the spot and the tension was escalating, although it seemed as if Sherlock hadn’t been touched by it at all.

“It’s just been a bad day,” John sighed. It was true. The weather was miserable, his leg and shoulder hurt, and he was starting to feel uncomfortable in general. “I think I’m going to Sarah’s tonight,” he announced after looking away.

Sherlock didn’t respond, or at least John couldn’t perceive a response. It set him on edge.

When he awoke the next morning on Sarah’s couch he felt no better, in fact, he felt worse. The dreams had returned, a peppering of his current confusions and Afghanistan. Sherlock, with amputated limbs, pressing against him and whispering in that brassy voice.

Sarah ended it via SMS leaving John only one option, to stay in the flat with a man he may or may not like. He didn’t know how to feel, disappointed or what. He felt vaguely empty and unsure.

When he returned to the flat Sherlock was missing but his smell remained, thick and tangible in the air. John was desperate, confused and desperate for something. He shouldn’t be so fine with it all.  _Sherlock is married to his work, for Christ’s sakes, he’s uninterested!_ John sat down in the armchair and turned on the telly, ignoring the writhing in his gut until it finally dissipated.

The depression of his break-up finally sunk in and John Watson handled it as many other men do. Sherlock still wasn’t home and he counted it a blessing as he closed the door to his room—and locked it—and dropped his pants.

What had started as thoughts about a woman (images provided on his laptop, of course) morphed into someone else.  _His fingers were in her hair and her lips were upon him._  He groaned, fisting his cock in his hand almost a little too roughly, slowing down a bit and swirling just there, at the head. John’s eyes rolled back into his head and the blond hair slowly crept to dark curls in his head.  _Her cheek rubbed against his thigh, breath hot and voice like that of a smoker._ The cheeks were getting sharper and the hair more unruly and that voice was descending deeper as he went. Before long he was choking and sputtering Sherlock’s name and coming into his hand. Self-satisfied, he started to tidy up, his fingers lingering on one of Sherlock’s shirts as he threw it in the laundry.

He should have been nervous at his lack of shame. He found that he wasn’t.


End file.
